


The Doctor is In

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Medical Kink, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-07
Updated: 2009-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like a PWP, only kinkier. House amuses himself with a... patient. Not to be taken in conjunction with large quantities of seriousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor is In

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks as always to [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/) , for being such a willing victim.
> 
> Thanks also to "Dr. Richard" and "Carl" and [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[ **bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) for sharing the um, inspiration. And in case you were wondering - yes, that pretty much _is_ how it went. Also, many happy returns to [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/), who has impeccable timing in birthdays, but should really be more careful what she wishes for ;)

House reclined comfortably on the examination table, a borrowed pillow behind his head, a stolen copy of _The National Enquirer_ in his hands. He'd always thought the main problem with hospitals was that they were consistently full of people who were either sick, or annoying, or more often both. But there were always oases of calm to be found amidst the chaos, if you knew where and when to look. It was a pity that the clinic rooms didn't come equipped with mini-bars and decent side tables, but at least the lighting was good. He flipped a page and caught up with the latest on the Madonna/Octomum cash-for-adoption scandal. Occasionally, he glanced at his watch.

By the time he'd reached the soap previews and the horoscopes, doing his best not to get them mixed up, he was frowning. He'd just about begun to contemplate giving up and calling it a day, when there came a soft tap at the door.

"Busy!" he yelled reflexively, but it opened anyway. A man poked his head around the door.

"Doctor House?" he said, scanning the entire room, and House, before making the decisive move to enter.

"Didn’t you hear me?" House demanded, but sat up anyway to better scrutinize his visitor. The man was tall and dark-haired, with a youthful-looking face on the brink of entering middle age. He wore a dark suit, a blue shirt with matching tie, and a tentative expression.

"I was… told you'd see me."

"What idiot told you that?" House said.

Absurdly, the man smiled. "I'm not sure I remember."

House shook his head in disgust, but threw the magazine onto a nearby bench and eased himself off the table. Ignoring his cane, which was leaning against the side of the cupboard, he made a lunge for the wheeled stool instead, and sat down. He glared at his would-be patient.

"In that case, do you remember what's wrong with you?"

The man shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "It's… personal."

House followed his glance towards the still-open door with a certain amount of exasperation. Their names and faces might change, but he'd still seen this guy hundreds of times before. They all had the same shifty body language, the same failure to come directly to the point.

"Balls or bowels?"

"What?" the man said, outrage momentarily overcoming embarrassment. "Do you _usually_ ask your patients that?"

"That's what 'personal' generally means. If the translation fits…"

"I'm going to shut the door," the man said, and did so, with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary.

He came back to stand in front of House, looking down at him warily.

"Maybe this isn't such a great idea…"

"Sure it is!" House said brightly. "Wouldn't want anything bad to happen to 'the boys' now, would we? Drop your pants."

"Maybe we should discuss the specific, uh… problem first."

"Sure, we can do that too. After you drop your pants." House glanced meaningfully at the man's belt buckle. "Or do you need help with that part as well?"

The man's hands went reluctantly to his belt and started to undo it. As he unzipped his fly, he muttered, "I knew I should have gone to somebody else. I hear Doctor Chase has a lot of experience in these matters."

"Oh, that would be a terrible idea," House said, his attention almost entirely focused on the man's movements. "He has cold hands." He rubbed his own together, looking up into the man's suddenly inquisitive eyes. "Or… so I've heard."

"Fine, so now what?" the man said, folding his arms and eyeing House dubiously. His dark wool pants and leather belt lay puddled around his ankles, a pair of unlikely navy briefs completing the arrangement. The tails of the blue shirt were making a valiant effort at preserving his remaining modesty.

"First, I'm going to have to make a _thorough_ examination," House said, rolling himself into position. One hand lifted up a shirt tail, prospectively. "Let me know if anything, you know, hurts."

"Why? Would it stop you?"

House considered this for a moment. "No, but it'd be interesting."

He reached forward then to grasp the man's penis, automatically noting the long-faded line that marked a childhood circumcision. He stroked his thumb gently over the pale surface of the shaft, then along both sides, lifting it up to inspect the inferior surface. It felt soft and heavy in his palm.

"Looks fine," he commented. "No lesions, lumps, or other abnormalities."

"How reassuring," the man said dryly. "And by the way, have you ever heard of gloves?"

"Sounds kinky," House remarked. "Now I'm going to palpate the scrotum. Try not to enjoy it too much."

"I'll do my best."

Slowly, very slowly, House went through all the formal procedures. He examined all surfaces of the scrotal sac, and then palpated first the left testicle, including the epididymis, spermatic cord and vas deferens, before moving on to the right, which he noted hung slightly lower. He was pleasantly aware of the tension radiating off his patient, the small indrawn breaths coming from above as House carefully checked for tenderness or irregularities. By the time he had finished, the man was half-hard, his shirt tails no longer completely enough to hide his arousal. When House glanced upwards, he found the man's eyes closed, although they flickered open as he realized that House was done for the moment.

"So how'd I do?" he said, his voice calm despite his slightly disheveled appearance.

House shook his head solemnly. "Everything looks fine on the surface, but now I think we really need to go _behind_ the scenes, and get a _feel_ for what's going on."

The man grimaced as though in pain, even though House was no longer touching him. "Whatever you think you have to do."

House wheeled himself over to the counter and pulled a single latex glove from the dispenser, snapping it over his right hand. "There. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Good. Now turn around and bend over."

The man complied without protest this time, bracing himself against the side of the exam table, his legs slightly bent. House dispensed a generous quantity of lube from the surgical pump pack, slathered it over his right index finger, and then wheeled himself back into position. He eased the man's shirt up further onto his back to get it out of the way, revealing his buttocks and the cleft between them.

"Try to relax," he said cheerfully. The only response was a small grunt, which somehow still managed to convey a significant quantity of sarcasm.

Dedicated as always, House first conducted an intensive visual inspection, and then used his left hand to open up a pathway for his gloved right. He stroked his lubed finger downwards a number of times, noting the various muscular responses to his touch, before bringing it to rest just below the opening.

"You should feel… now, what was it again? Oh yeah, a slight pressure," he said, before slipping the very tip of his finger inside, palm downwards. He was rewarded with a small gasp, and the man's sphincter muscles tightened sharply around his initial intrusion before they were slowly, forcibly relaxed. He waited another few seconds and then pressed his finger half an inch deeper. Then he turned it slowly through its entire range of movement, evaluating the strength of the muscles surrounding it and the smoothness of the interior structures. Everything seemed to be nicely operational.

Then he pushed in further, easily locating the firm, rubbery bulge of the prostate gland. He stroked the tip of his finger against it, absent-mindedly identifying the lateral lobes, the deep central groove. All apparently in excellent condition. But far more interesting was the effect of his explorations on his patient, who by now appeared to be struggling to hold himself still and in position.

"Everything okay there?" he enquired blandly, while stroking his finger firmly against the surface once more. He watched the man's hands tighten frantically on the exam table upholstery, heard the breath hitching in his throat.

"Just… fine," came the tense response.

House double checked his work for good measure, eliciting another gasp from his patient. One had to be thorough about these things. "I agree. Well then, that just leaves one more thing."

Slowly he withdrew his gloved finger, wondering if his patient's sigh of relief were real or imagined. He stripped off the glove with his other hand, peeling it off in a single smooth movement from wrist to fingertips, and disposed of it in the trash. Then he pulled open the top drawer of a nearby counter and retrieved the instrument he had stowed there earlier. It was about six inches long, an inch wide, and a rather unattractive shade of beige.

"Get up on the table," House said, his voice rougher now.

The man straightened up, his back still to House, and bent a little to take off his shoes and socks, and disengage himself from the small pile of clothing in which he was standing. The jacket came off next, but his shirt and tie stayed on. Only then did he begin to clamber up onto the table, a little awkwardly.

"On your back," House corrected, and the man flipped over, albeit reluctantly. House could see that he was fully erect now, his penis raised a little away from the swaddling of his shirt tails, a far more attractive specimen than the silicone replica House was currently holding. Still, there was no time for idle appreciation when there was work to do. House quickly adjusted the table's height to his liking, lowering the head from its original near-upright position before flattening the foot section.

The man eyed the object in House's hand nervously, his tongue reaching out momentarily to moisten his lips. But he said nothing.

"Knees up," House said, and watched as the man obeyed, closing his eyes, his head falling back against the pillow. His hands reached to loosen his tie a little, undo the constricting collar button at his throat. House let his gaze linger on the sight for a moment longer, and then walked over to grab some more lubricant. After coating the instrument thoroughly, he returned to stand beside the table.

"Breathe," he said, and then began to push the object into the man's body, inch by inch. House watched intently as it slid it in to the hilt, then withdrew it a little and pushed it back in again, beginning a slow, steady rhythm. After that had been established to his satisfaction House began to carry out his examination, dutifully experimenting with different pressures and angles.

At first the man's face remained relatively impassive; one hand lay by his side, the other resting loosely on his chest. However, a few nicely positioned strokes later, just _there_ , and he was clutching at the table, beginning to twist a little, pushing back against House's hand. His mouth was slightly open, the sound of his breathing harsh in the silence. One hand crept down furtively to stroke himself, the cloth of his sleeve brushing against his shirtfront in whispery counterpoint to the sound of flesh on flesh. A faint sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead.

Transfixed by the sight, House fumbled with his free hand to undo the button of his jeans, shifting just enough of his clothing aside so that he could take care of his own erection. However the break in rhythm gave the man enough breathing space to compose himself a little, and he began watching House's movements with rapt concentration. Annoyed, House had no choice but to return his attentions fully to his patient, increasing the pace of his examination until the man surrendered and lay back down, his eyes once more drifting shut.

"If you keep that up," the man said at last, between gasps. "This is going to be over much quicker than you expect."

"It's not my fault you can't keep your hands off yourself," House retorted acidly, but he took the hint and gradually stilled the movements of his left hand. Finally, he withdrew the instrument from the man's body and placed it on a nearby countertop.

Now he made his way around to the head of the table, his patient watching him intently once more. Although the man looked increasingly rumpled, the lower buttons of his blue shirt remained firmly buttoned. As he belatedly began to reach for them, House pushed his hands away, and began to undo them himself. He was permitted to finish the last one, and then the man pulled him down by his T-shirt for a long kiss. House returned it, caressing the newly exposed planes of the man's chest, letting his fingers worry at each nipple.

Then the man turned abruptly on his side, propping himself up and leaning over. He put his hands on House's hips and drew House toward him, first licking at the tip of House's cock before finally closing his mouth around it. House bucked and groaned at the sensations, losing himself for a moment in running his hands through the man's hair. Then he recovered valiantly, and turned to the complicated business of removing the man's tie without breaking the contact between them.

When that had been accomplished, the man stopped what he was doing, much to House's disappointment, and instead scrambled up to a kneeling position on the bench so that their faces were close to level. He quickly stripped House of his T-shirt, then began toying with him, bringing his mouth in for a kiss, moving aside at the last moment, his lips landing instead on House's cheek, his jaw line, his shoulders. At the same time, one hand played gently with House's cock; light, fondling touches that promised much but delivered little.

House growled in frustration and reached out to divest the man of his now-unbuttoned shirt, earning himself another kiss when it was done. Then he drew back a little to contemplate the sight of the man kneeling before him, naked now, flushed, panting slightly. House’s cock pulsed under his own hand, reminding him of unfinished business. The force of his own desire propelled him forward again, and this time he grabbed the man's upper arms, the skin warm and smooth under his grip.

"Say it," he demanded roughly.

"And what happens if I don't?" The man's small half-smile was maddening. He had returned to stroking himself, secure in the knowledge that he had House's full and complete attention.

"Say it."

The man leaned forward then, his lips brushing House's cheek along the way.

"Fuck me," he said, in a whisper just loud enough to cross the space between them.

House wasted no time in pushing him down onto his back again. The width of the exam table was not much more than the length of the man's torso, so that he lay with his head dipped down slightly over one side and his legs raised, bent at the knee. But before he was even fully settled House was plunging into him, a single smooth glide that seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough. Again, faster now, harder, and House was savagely pleased to find all amusement gone from the man's eyes. It wasn't the easiest position to manage; House was supporting as much weight on his good leg as possible, but all the same he knew he would be paying for this in days to come, maybe all the way into next week. But the pleasure was worth the price.

Again and again, and now the man was urging House on with hoarse cries, his hand wrapped around himself in a desperate rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut. The air around them smelled of musk and sweat.

"Close," he said quietly, as though asking permission.

"Yes," House said, granting it.

A few more thrusts from House and it was over. The man groaned, loudly, and House watched the ugly-beautiful contortions of his face, the tendons tightening in his neck as he came. House had fully intended to wait, to watch, to hold himself back a little longer, but he discovered that he didn't want to, that he _couldn't_.

"Oh," he said, as though surprised at himself, and then he was thrusting again, and everything was a blur of heat and flesh, and through it all he could feel the struggle of the man on the table, of his patient, of _oh, god, Wilson_ to buttress himself on the table against House's frantic movements. He must have cried out; Wilson's hand was suddenly on his arm, steadying him, stopping him from collapsing into a boneless heap on the floor.

Somehow, House managed to collect himself enough to pull out, to walk the couple of steps to one of the hard plastic patient chairs and slump into it, his breathing still harsh and unsteady. Through half-lidded eyes he saw Wilson moving back up the table, stretching himself out into a more comfortable position, House's purloined pillow firmly under his head. Bastard.

"I'm _sure_ that's not how it ended when I saw it," Wilson said at last, smirking just a little.

"Shut up," House said, and then returned his attention to breathing. Fine, so technically he should have waited until he got back to the chair and jerked off there, but Wilson really didn't need to be quite so smug about it. After a few moments he added, "And _I'm_ sure the patient didn't talk so damn much."

"You didn't do the British accent, either. That would have been kind of hot."

"What are you, the Roger Ebert of porn? I would have ended up sounding like Chase."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Exhausted, House reverted to his first, all-purpose response. "Shut up."

This time Wilson gave in graciously, and the silence stretched out between them, but it was warm, companionable. The chair, on the other hand, was starting to become extremely uncomfortable. Still, he didn’t feel up to moving just yet.

It was Wilson who recovered first, getting up gingerly from the exam table and going over to the sink to give himself a quick once over with paper towels and water. He smiled at House, who was content to admire the view as Wilson began retrieving the various scattered items of his clothing from around the room, putting them back on. Only when he was fully dressed again, right down to the tie and shoelaces, did he come over to House, kneeling beside him and kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"Happy Birthday, House," he said. His tone changed to one of amusement as he added, "So, do you think you can make it home by yourself?"

"Depends what you're cooking."

"You'll find out when you get there."

House grunted in disgust, but as Wilson turned away he caught him by the arm, pulled him down again for a proper kiss.

"You know," he said cryptically, meeting Wilson's eyes for a moment and then hurriedly looking away again.

Wilson gave him that half-smile again, only this time the smugness had been replaced by something softer. "Yeah."

After Wilson had gone, House finally managed to pry himself out of the chair and rearrange himself and his clothing. He left the room to the mercy of the cleaners - pillow, crumpled magazine, and all - but he did at least retrieve the object that they had used, giving it a quick clean before stowing it away in his backpack. Then he slung the backpack over his shoulder, and grabbed his cane from its resting place. He gave the room's disarray a final, satisfied glance and left, closing the door behind him.

Outside, everything was still and quiet - at this hour the clinic reception and the adjoining rooms were all conveniently dark. It really had gone very well, House thought; he had always known that Wilson was a man of many unexplored possibilities. Next year, maybe they could try the one with the unscrupulous employer and the wanton houseboy. He could just see Wilson now, up on a stepladder dusting, clad only in a small, frilly white apron. Surely Wilson couldn't possibly find anything objectionable about _that_ scenario. They wouldn't even have to leave the apartment.

House made his way through to the still-bustling lobby with a thoughtful air, heading for home, a good dinner and most importantly, Wilson. By the time he reached the hospital doors, he was whistling.


End file.
